Nightmares
by JellyLove01
Summary: Sometimes Myrnin has a little trouble sleeping...


Myrnin stands motionlessly in the centre of his lab, surrounded by broken glass and overturned tables and an inky blackness that kept him from seeing any further than a foot in front of him. It had been a long time since he couldn't see in the dark. It made him feel weak. He wanted to reach out into the pitch black, to feel around for _something_ , but he feels weighted and he can't move. His arms are stuck to his sides, heavy as lead, and he doubted he'd be able to find anything anyway.

He watches in horror as the thick fog seeps into the room, floating in from the crack under the door and quickly swirling around him. He can't move, can't run from it. It sweeps the floor with an ominous green glow that did little to illuminate his lab. Quickly, it conceals his legs. He can't see his feet anymore; they're hidden from his sight. For one dreadfully long moment, Myrnin thinks that maybe he doesn't have feet anymore. He can't wriggle his toes to check, and he certainly can't see them. The only thing that convinces him that they're still there is the fact that he can feel the icy cold tiles against his bare feet, but disappointment still flashes through his mind: _how interesting it would be to not have feet_ , he thinks, and lets out a nervous laugh. He can't help it. He didn't really want to laugh. It just slipped from his throat before he could stuff it back down.

He watches as his field of vision expands, as the darkness fades – so much that he can now see the entirety of his destroyed laboratory. He feels cold, for once. He never felt cold. He was always cold – he was _dead_ – but this was a different kind of cold. He still can't move, despite the fear buried in his chest. He thinks it's a little strange now, how he isn't the predator but rather the prey. His instincts tell him to run, but it's like he's anchored to the floor and he can't move a muscle. He watches as they come for him.

At first, there were only a few. They floated in through the crack in the door, just like the fog had. But they didn't glow green, and they weren't quite as harmless as condensed water. They stood taller than him, which was quite a feat. They were black and wispy and stared at him not with eyes – for they didn't have any – but gaping mouths lined with rows and rows of sharp teeth. Quite rapidly, his lab was filled with them. As they inched closer to him, Myrnin's fear increased. He figured if he wasn't dead, he'd have had some sort of heart failure by now.

He stood perfectly still, but it wasn't like he had much choice in the matter. The shifting shapes that so often preyed on him in moments of weakness lunged at him, a reminder of the deterioration of his mind, a reminder that he wasn't who he was or who he should be. He cries out, but no sound leaves his mouth – not even a squeak. The wispy black shapes taunt him, circling him and lunging at him. They're always silent though, aside from the sound that seemed to permanently follow them. It was like the hum of a fridge or a freezer, and Myrnin thought it was fitting, for when they passed through him they left him cold and alone and confused.

He tries his hardest to shut them out, like he did when he was in company – or at least, company he didn't want to eat. Because the wisps made him do things, hurt people and break things and make rash decisions. They made him lose control. So he tried to ignore them, to shut them out and lock them back up someplace in his mind for him to encounter some other time. But they wouldn't stop. They wouldn't go quiet. They wouldn't go away. They kept calling to him, kept taunting him. They passed through the air with the sound of whispers, but it wasn't like they were saying anything anyway. It was all in his head. Besides, they communicated in refrigerator hums, not human tongues. Never actual words. Only feelings, only coldness. And that humming. That damn humming. Whispers. Black wispy tongues. Mouths gaping open, teeth lined up in rows. Gnawing. Gnashing. Swirling. Surrounding. Floating. Always floating. Where were his feet? Oh, they were there still. Nervous chuckles turn to shrill laughter. Only to soothe, only to calm. Deep rumblings from his chest, rolling off his tongue. But where were his hands? And why were they so large? How inconvenient for travelling. High pitched squeals. The taste of blood. Taunting. Jabbing. Poking. Prodding. Damnit, stop _prodding_! Cattle. Like cattle. Prey and predator. Hunter and the hunted. Attacking. Always attacking.

The shadows engulf him in cold, black wisps…

…and that _damn_ humming.


End file.
